This is the last mailbag for two weeks. I'll be off next week for the holiday, and back for the week of New Year's.

Before I get into the mail, a quick personal note. Last night, I was up for two hours in the middle of the night with a nasty bout of back pain. I couldn't find a comfortable position. Lying down. Legs on a pillow. Head on a pillow. On the floor. On the recliner. There was nowhere for me to go without doubling over in fucking agony. I have a rotten spine, the result of two surgeries and likely a youth filled with playing untold amounts of Smear the Queer and lifting free weights in college with the absolute worst form possible (ARCH THAT BACK, BOYS!). Also, I am fat. I'm 260 pounds, and that can't possibly be good for a crap back. I lie about this weight everywhere, even to the gym equipment. What does the fucking gym equipment care? I have no idea, but I lie like a little shit to it anyway. I have to lose weight if I ever want to be able to pick up my kid without pain again. That means cutting down on boozing (BOOO), cutting out sweets (BOOO), and eating more fruits and vegetables (FUCKING BARF).

I have found, as I grow older, that life has a delightful way of taking your vices from you, one by one. You can't eat too much, or you'll have a heart attack. You can't drink too much, or you'll get fat. Or you'll be an alcoholic, but whatever. Being fat is way worse than being an alcoholic. You can't stay up late, or else it ruins your fucking shit the next day. Basically, unless you have Anthony Bourdain's heroin metabolism, you end up not being able to do much of anything.

That is why I say to you youthful folk out there right now: CHOW FUCKING DOWN. For real, this is your only chance to be fat and drunk and irresponsible with very little permanent consequences, apart from people finding you superficially repugnant. I should have eaten more when I was young. I should have done WAY more drugs. I should have been doubly irresponsible, because now I can't even come close to being the complete waste of life I've always yearned to be. You young people have the rest of adulthood to be productive and athletic. NOW is the only real chance you have to embrace your slothfulness and be a total goddamn pig. Make it happen. There is bacon I now cannot eat that has your name all over it. Do it now, before old age buttfucks all the guilty pleasures right out of you.

Let's get to the mail.

Andrew:

I'm taking a couple art classes and have been attending live modeling sessions. The models are different every week, and are usually middle aged (men and women). I walked in to the last one, however, and found before me a particularly attractive nubile young lass. Throughout the three hours, I'm sitting there trying to stave off a chub while wondering if there was any conceivable way I could hit on this girl at the end of the session. What's your stance on this? I didn't actually go through with it, because it just seemed way too creepy—my friend likened it to a gynecologist asking out a patient. I tend to agree. It was also tough to figure out if I would be attracted to her under other circumstances; for the first time in my life I was trying to picture a girl with her clothes on. My question: do I shamelessly ask her out if she turns up at another session?

I'm not sure there's a more difficult phone number to score than that of the nude model in your art class. It's in the same class as trying to ask out your waitress, your stripper (if you are not rich or a famous person), or your teacher on site. The problem is, if you ask her out after class, then it smacks of distastefulness. She's taking her clothes off for the class and assuming you have the discretion to not think about banging the living daylights out of her while she's up there all vulnerable and exposed (women are always wishful thinkers in this way). Asking her out after class just confirms to her you are a disgusting pig who never took the class seriously and you were only in it for the Spank Bank material.

What if you asked her if she could model for one of your works, CLOTHED, outside of class? You could even pay her, like a freelance modeling gig. Then, you'd be able to paint her in a less awkward situation, talk to her one on one, and perhaps figure out if she's intrigued in the process. She could be your muse! If she liked you enough, you could soon paint her tits with white chocolate. CLASSY.

I know there are many personal plates out there that make your skin crawl just like it makes mine. I have to see one 5 times a week at work…on a new Range Rover…the plate reads "YESITIS" Yes it is what? Yes it is a Range Rover? Thanks for clarifying, douche.

Odds that Range Rover also had an OBX Euro decal on it? 1,000%

Dave:

Ever enjoying a really great piss, when all of a sudden your chin lets lose the bundled shirt because you've foolishly lifted your head distracted by something, or you just didn't take the time to secure it properly. Down comes the iron curtain cutting your stream and resulting in a soaked shirt and pants... fuck all else you can do but douse it with water in an attempt to dilute the yellow mark of shame and dry it under a hand dryer, like a bum.

Now, wait a second. Did you just say you tuck your shirt under your chin when you piss? Is this a common thing? What kind of shirt do you wear that requires such drastic action? Is this a kimono?

The only time I piss on my shirt is when I have a button down on. Button downs, of course, are much longer than a t-shirt or sweatshirt. But usually, if untucked, I just unzip and let the little fella poke out between the two shirt flaps. Sometimes, a flap goes rogue and ends up in the stream, which is awful. But that's pretty few and far between. I just love the idea of going into a public urinal and flashing your nips to everyone because you don't want piss on your shirt.

NMB:

I am a huge fan of all the holiday specific flavors like egg nog, pumpkin, peppermint, and gingerbread. These flavors are delicious, why limit ourselves to two months when we could have a full year of them? Are dairy farmers under strict orders from the government forbidding them of releasing egg nog year round for fear of escalating are already ridiculous obesity percentage? I want my liquid fat and eggs in summer, too. The best part of egg nog is the steroided Yellow Russians you can make with them. Aside from the bread and butter, rum and egg nog, what's your favorite holiday alcoholic beverage?

My favorite holiday alcoholic beverage is whiskey, which is luckily not sold seasonally. I too get frustrated with limited time foods. You can only buy Cadbury Crème Eggs at Easter, which is an agonizing wait every year.

Also, my wife is a HUGE seasonal eater. So if it's July and I say to her, "Hey, how about some chili?", she'll balk and declare it a winter food. But I want chili. WHO ARE YOU TO DECLARE CHILI OUT OF SUMMER'S JURISDICTION?!

Aaron:

What's your take on people who tell you exactly what they want for Christmas? I have a brother-in-law who will call me at the beginning of December every year and tell me exactly what he wants for Christmas. It's always just one thing and usually a DVD or something similar. He calls everyone who will be getting him a gift and does the same thing.

I'm sort of torn because, he's an asshole for doing this, but at the same time, I hate Christmas shopping, so just picking up a specific item is much, much easier. BTW, he's 27 years old.

That's the bitch of Christmas. You don't want to go into shopping flying blind, because that's horrid. But if someone tells you exactly what they want and that's what you end up getting them and they already know that, then the magic is GONE. Eh, what are you gonna do. Thank him for making your life easier. Beats my folks, who always insist they don't want anything every year. "Oh, we're fine." Oh yeah? Not with my boot in your ass, it isn't. You will get a gift and you will fucking LIKE IT.

James:

Ever have a monster log, and it plops down and hits the water causing a splash, which sends toilet water directly into the center of your bunghole?...I don't hate it.

Me neither. I know some people are terrified of splashback. But hey, it's hitting your asshole. It's not like that's the cleanest spot on Earth. You weren't gonna eat sushi off it later.

On a complete tangent, I've never ranked sushi in order of preference. Just the basic rolls. Not toro or sea urchin or the fancy stuff. Here's a quick attempt:

As someone with experience in advertising, any thoughts on this new CBS angle of hyping music in their dramas? This makes no sense to me. "Well, I don't ever watch or have any interest in The Mentalist, but now that there's an episode featuring music by Train..."

Yeah, that makes no sense. All that tell you is that you will be subjected to MORE than one musical montage. One of those, "Hey, let's just take a break from having to advance the story by showing people sad." TELL ME! DID THE WIND SWEEP YOU OFF YOUR FEEEEETTTT?!!!

Chris:

Living in the predominantly white Midwest, I've noticed a disturbing trend of people giving their children names that end in the "den" sound (Aidan, Grayden, Jayden, Brayden, etc.). Is this white people's preppy answer to black people putting La-, Ja-, Da-, etc. in front of normal names (JaMarcus, LaMichael, DeJuan, etc.)?

Yes. In fact, according to babycenter.com, two of the top ten baby names for boys this year are Aiden (#4) and Jayden (#9). Jayden? More like GAYden, am I right? Huh? Huh?

But yeah, I would argue that white kids now have sillier names than black kids. White people seem incapable these days of giving their kids normal names like Matt or Mike. No, no. They have to make a statement. That's how you end up with white kids with names like Buxton, and Hotchkiss, and God knows what else. If it sounds like a prep school I attended, it's been slapped on a baby within the past few years.

Sam:

I am watching the Chargers-Dallas game. (I live in the SF Bay Area. Raiders are blacked out. I have Comcast.) The game comes back from commercial with a wonderful shot of the Cowboy cheerleaders shot from a low angle focusing on their legs. What does CBS do? Run their fucking animated logo over the middle of the screen. All I can see are boots. What the hell? DIE CBS!

Yeah, that's been a real epidemic lately. Before, they just did quick cutaways to cheerleaders. Now, they have long cheerleader shots obscured by a goddamn graphic. Well, how am I supposed to masturbate to that? It's ridiculous. If you're gonna show cheerleaders, TV people, fucking show them. Give me enough time to unbuckle and do what I need to do. Quit being so gunshy. Assholes.

In fact, I see no reason why FAVRE CAM technology can't be used for good. Why not just train one camera on the cheerleaders all game long and stream it? FUCK AND YEAH, THAT WOULD RULE.

Matt:

Do you get that feeling of accomplishment when you can take a massive shit during a timeout in the game you're watching? I unloaded a morning-after-barbecue-and-drinking dump today between the first and second quarters of the Bears game. Normally, this would have been a 15-minute, two magazine article art piece, but I ripped that fucker in two minutes flat and was back in time for football.

That's great hustle.

/slaps you on your poopy ass

I try and time my poops so I don't miss anything. But TV networks have a way of saving their fastest commercial breaks exactly for the times I try and shit. Then I come back to my chair, and it's a ten-minute ad break.

Stokes:

Not that I'm trying to reignite the great poo-wiping war of '09, but toilet paper goes overhand, right? I consider a Simpsons reference to mean "DONE," but your stand vs. sit column (sitter and back-to-fronter here) shattered my universe enough already.

I always put it in overhand. My mom installs it underhand, which drives me insane. Sometimes I have that issue where I can't find where the roll begins, so I roll it around a couple times to find the beginning. I'll do this at my mom's house and end up inadvertently unrolling half the roll because I forgot she does it underhand.

Mike:

A few years back, I was visiting New York City while in college. I went out to eat with my friends at a restaurant with very attentive service, which means that I drank about half a gallon of water. About 5 minutes after we left the restaurant, I had to piss. Badly. And there was nothing in sight but jewelry stores.

My bladder slowly began to fill to dangerous levels. I lost the ability to stand upright, and it was like how I imagine a nearly-ruptured appendix feels. Upon finally finding a Borders, I rushed into the bathroom and found an open urinal. My bladder was so full that it took 5 seconds of peeing before it stopped hurting (I spent this entire five seconds seriously thinking it must have burst, and that my abdomen was full of piss). After that, I spent a long time in a state of urination euphoria.

Once that subsided, it occurred to me that I still had a lot of piss to go, so I decided to time myself. Using the ever-reliable "one-mississippi" system, I counted, from that point, to 52 seconds. My conservative estimation is that I was peeing, at maximum force, for 65 seconds.

From then on, I started timing myself every time I really had to go, and sometimes just for the hell of it. I've never again gone past even the 52 seconds I actually counted on the first time.

I'm curious to see if anyone else does this, and how long they've gone. Rules are, first burst to first break. No counting the residual squirts, and no holding back to increase time (not that any right-minded person would do this, it would feel awful).

I have never done this, and my weak bladder would almost certainly have no shot. I invite others to try and top Mike's record.

The worst I ever had to piss was on a flight from Columbus to Washington. At the Columbus airport, I drank two liter glasses of beer right before getting on board. Then the plane took off, there was massive turbulence, and for some reason, I never bothered to do the "Commando" thing where you get up when the light is on anyway to piss and tell the stewardess, "I-uh aim ay-uh sick." I usually happily ignore the Fasten light to go piss. Anyway, this time I didn't, and I thought I was gonna fucking die. It was agony I'd never wish on any man. When the plane landed, I literally shoved women and children out of the way to get to the head. If I was ever gonna top 52 seconds, that would be it. My stream was the width of the fucking Amazon that night.

Patrick:

I have adopted a unique pooping technique that I heard about through a friend. It's called the AC Slater, and when my friend introduced to it to me as such, I knew exactly what it meant. Concordantly, I now sit reverse, facing the "upper deck" of the toilet. It's kinda awkward at first, and if someone sees your feet facing the opposite way under the stall door, they might be alarmed. However, you can rest your head on the top of the upper deck when tired. Plus, you feel trendy and a little dangerous while you're doing it. Also, I'm thinking of developing a way to put some ropes with handles into the wall above the toilet, so that way you can really anchor yourself in and lean way back so as to get a different angle on the bowl. Very innovative.

Why stop there? Why not put a horsey head on top of the tank and hold onto the reins? LOOK AT YOU, YOU'RE A SHITTIN' BRONCO!

Hank Scorpio:

Any thoughts on the December holiday candy/snack scene? You've got the Chanukah gold foil wrapped chocolate coins (Rolf must wish those came with a chewy Heeb nougat center), chocolate enrobed peppermint oreos, mint M&Ms, Christmas tree peeps and so on. What are your favorites?

Don't forget butter cookies, gingerbread men, glazed pecans, and those little white, powdery cookies with the nuts inside. Those are lovely. I could eat Holiday M&M's by the fucking barrel.

MC:

I've been in the oil industry for 18 years. A major western oil company built a floating rig in the Caspian Sea with Western accommodations but part of the deal was they had to hire locals to run it. It seems the populace in Azerbaijan's idea of a toilet is a slit in the ground. Once the rig started operating there were a large number of lost time injuries that baffled everyone. It was the crapper. Slit guys did not know how to deal with a porcelain throne. So they did what they knew and stood on the rim to piss and crap into the slit. On a floating vessel. All of the lost time injuries were from guys climbing on the pot, slipping off and busting their asses.

Said western oil company had to include a class on crapper usage for all current and future employees in this region of the world.

And THAT is why gas is three goddamn dollars a gallon.

Niall:

While wiping, do you check to see the results on the toilet paper? Three of the four of us absolutely agreed we all check out the TP while wiping to know when we're finished, but the last guy said he doesn't ever look, he just "knows" when he's done. How the hell could anyone have such confidence in their is-there-still-shit-on-my-butt sensing abilities? Apparently this has worked for him his whole life, which makes me think he frequently suffers from itchy-poop-ass. He was somewhat disgusted by the thought that we're checking out our own poop smears, but given the potential consequences is not looking even an option to be considered?

Yeah, not looking is crazy talk. You have to look. I usually know what's in store for me when I'm wiping. But that doesn't mean my instinct is foolproof. Ever think you did a minimal amount of damage, then look at the paper and it looks like Heinz Field? Horrifying.

Also, I'll have those sessions where I just wipe and look and wipe and look and I can't ever seem to get to that end-goal "white wipe" that lets you know all the poop has been dismissed. Those sessions are awful.

Jazbo:

You drop down a sticky log, wipe and flush and go away. Come back an hour later to piss, and there is that awesome poop residue sticking to that nice white toilet. Is this THE greatest challenge a man can face? Can you force out a stream of piss hard/fast enough to clean that bowl clean? It can also be dangerous because you squeeze so hard to make that force stream, you may drop some crap on the floor.

You know what I do? I pinch. I pinch and get as big of a buildup as I can, and then I release. It's like a dam bursting. Immensely satisfying. I do that even if there's no clean up duty to be done. I just like the idea of making as loud and big a splash as possible. Sometimes, I even yell out CANNONBALL before I let go. The piss pinch is always fun.

Nate:

While I don't know any standers, a friend of mine once described his wiping technique and I found it startling. Instead of taking a clump of toilet paper that would give one confidence that enough material could keep from tearing during a standard wipe, my friend would take the roll and proceed to wrap his entire hand in toilet paper as if he was putting a bandage on an injured appendage. He would then wipe, open handed, using the wrapped hand.

HE'S A MUMMY!

Adam:

Have you ever tried to wipe with your "off" hand? It is fucking impossible. I had never thought about it, but one day my dad challenged me to try it. I have never been so goddamn frustrated in my life. I'd rather write out War & Peace with my left hand than ever try wiping with it again.

I think I tried it once. It's impossible. But usually, when I think to try something new in the shitter, I go on autopilot and completely forget to try it.

Jason:

I really don't get the standing. I've never seen a toilet paper dispenser anywhere higher than what would be just above knee level while standing, often it's lower (I'm 6'2"). Do standers collect several wads, stand and go, or do they keep squatting/bending down to get more?

It's true. Sitting appears to be industry standard. And what if you're at the gym, and you have one of those giant dispensers that lets you toggle between two rolls, only you have to switch it so that it goes to the other roll, and you have to do that all while standing, possibly with a turdburger dangling from your asshair? NIGHTMARE.

Mike:

A former co-worker in my office was known for his epic dumps. His obsession with dumping rivals only yours. One day he had a poo epiphany… he kept saying "Smitty, I'm going to ICE IT DOWN!" I of course, had no clue what this meant. Dude proceeds to walk out to the ice machine, gets 5 big scoops and fills up the pot with said ice. Needless to say, it would take a few flushes for the ice to give… and the mammoth anaconda like turds his 350lb body produced? On a huge pile of ice? Nightmare fuel to say the least.

That's awesome. The ice would also serve to harden the turd, like chewing gum, making it harder to flush. DIABOLICAL.

David:

The girlfriend and I are finishing up brushing our teeth the other night when I notice a chunk of lint in my belly button. I pull it out, and this thing is about the size of a lima bean. I have no idea how long it's been there, but I'd just pulled off a shirt I'd been wearing for the previous fourteen hours.

I pull it out and show her. She was instantly disgusted, so I threatened to touch her with it, and she recoiled in horror, nearly stepping into the shower to get away from me. At which point I stick it on my tongue in front of her. As soon as I did, she began screaming and shoving me out the bathroom door. I pulled this now soggy piece of lint off my tongue and dropped it down her shirt. More screaming that this is the most disgusting thing that she's ever had happen to her, until I reminded her that she's licked my asshole.

For about three seconds, she got a look on her face like some high school freshman thinking over a particularly tough algebra problem, and then put her finger in my chest and insisted it's totally different and the lint was way more disgusting.

Please confirm that I'm not crazy and that belly button lint in my mouth in no way compares to analingus.

Yeah, BB lint is just shirt lint. It's not fungus or anything. Put it this way, Dave. I'd rather give you a bellyjob than toss your salad.

Women are odd about bellybuttons, though. Mine is completely insensitive. You could jam a thumb in there and I wouldn't mind (I've got the depth). But some girls… you go near their bellybutton and they fucking FREAK. Relax, lady. I'm not trying to puncture you.

Confused in CA:

I have a kid. He's a good kid. He's enthusiastic about reading. He always has his head in a book. He talks about the book he's reading on our commute to school.

I should be happy, right? I should be thrilled right?

Well, I am — but not really.

See, the writer he's fallen in love with, the writer that has changed his life, is none other than Mike Lupica. Apparently the Lupica we all know and hate has written a series of sports books for middle schoolers. I've glanced at them and they're sort of like the Matt Christopher books I/we read as kids. Maybe they're aimed at a slightly older audience — the Christopher books were more for elementary school kids — but if you read The Kid Who Only Hit Home Runs or Little Lefty — you get the idea.

My question is: Do I tell him what Lupica really is? Do I shatter his 8th grade enthusiasm and snuff out what might be my only chance to see my kid become a "reader" by letting him in on the dirty little secret that is Dirty Little Lupica?

No, but you have to trade your son for a new one immediately. Otherwise, you'll take him to a baseball game, and he'll pipe up some bullshit about steroids, and then you'll have to purposely blind him with piping hot nacho cheese.

Did you say this kid is in 8th grade? He's old enough. Talk to him about Lupica. Learning you hate Lupica is one of the great experiences of youth. Let him know just what kind of angry, gay leprechaun Lupica is. He'll thank you. I'd rather have a gay kid than a Lupica fan.

Pat:

Is there a certain food that if you eat it, you're guaranteed a huge dump? For me it's beets. Added bonus with beets is that you turn the bowl blood red.

So, around this time last year me and my wife were shopping for an SUV to accommodate our soon to be born first child. We (my wife) decided on a Lexus. We go to the dealership and pick one out. They had those stupid gigantic bows on every car in the showroom. While we're filling out the paperwork, I sarcastically asked the salesman if the car comes with one of the gigantic bows.

Salesman: "Yes, but you have to bring it back."

Me: "What? People actually want to take the bows home?"

Salesman (who wasn't a complete idiot): "Oh yeah, every December almost everybody who gets a Lexus wants to take a bow home, you know, to surprise their significant other, but usually just to take their picture with the Lexus and the bow. So, that's why we let people take the bows home. Just gotta bring ‘em back."

Me: "If someone's buying a Lexus, shouldn't you just, you know, throw in the gigantic bow?"

Salesman: "Not my call."

Me: "What do you do if the bow isn't returned?"

Salesman: [Nervous laughter].

I couldn't believe it. There are people out there dumb enough to not only want the goddamn gigantic bow but who also want to live the fucking commercial and are willing to drive back to the dealer to return the gigantic bow in order to do so. The commercials are maddening, but apparently efficient. In sum, Lexus will keep using these gigantic bow commercials until everyone in the world who would actually want to have one of these gigantic bows is dead.

And no. We did not take home one of the gigantic bows.

I will email you some other time about why I hate the car. In the meantime, kindly stop praying for my death via neutron bomb. It was my wife's fault. And I'd prefer if you didn't pray for her death. I don't want to tell my son someday that his mother was killed because of a Lexus commercial starring a gigantic fucking holiday bow.

But what if I were to wish her to become entrapped and strangled by the bow? That the bow would come to life as some kind of undead, monster ribbon that feeds only on the shallow and materialistic? Can I pray for that?

I kid. I kid.

Patrick:

My girlfriend insists we vacuum under the couch and other large furniture every time we vacuum. I say once or twice a year is fine. We never look under there. What's the fucking problem? She also advocates cleaning BEHIND the toilet once a week. It's behind the toilet. Is that space ever going to stay clean for more than 10 seconds?

Never. Ever look behind a toilet? It's the other side of Hell. Piss. Toilet paper lint. Dead flies. It's terrifying, and cleaning it is guaranteed to destroy your knees and back. Worst of all, because of the piss, the woman always blames YOU for messing it up.

Silver Britches:

You had me until you called college football vastly inferior to the NFL. Fuck you, cocknose. DIE. The NFL is a massive fuckwad of 17-10 games played in sterile, noiseless monuments to civic clusterfuckedness. It's a nice way to come down off my Saturday homicidal rage.

You need only a few minutes to get through the 5 stages of football grief? You know how long it takes college football fans? FUCKING ETERNITY.

Go Dawgs, Hunker Down, and fuck your mother.

Got it. Let me just pencil that in on the calendar.

Chris:

Hey Drew, I'm moving in a few months and my future room-mate happens to be Latino. I've been to his apartment, and he puts his toilet paper in the trash can too. How can I convince to knock that shit off and flush like a normal, red-blooded American?

Piss in the trash can and see how he feels about it.

Dan:

You said your wife will listen to you after going to the bathroom to know if you washed your hands. Have you ever just run the faucet so she thinks you washed? I do that to my wife all the time. It also works great if you are at someone else's house. Just run the faucet and come out of the bathroom rubbing your hands together and on your pants so it looks like you washed.

I do indeed run the faucet and then turn it off without ever placing my hands under it, which is pure evil, when you think about it. How much harder is it to turn on the water and then place your hands under it? Too hard for me. There's a reason I'm 260.

Ryan:

Whenever I take a massive dump, I like to whip out the camera on my Blackberry and send a picture of it to all my friends. Because I have become very close to her, I have started to include my brother's fiancee in on the festivities. It has become so bad, that she won't open any text message pics from me anymore because she knows what's coming, thereby missing out on some Picasso's (My last one, I was told, look like a collection of geese poop). To circumvent this, I have decided to send her a Christmas card with a picture of my recent work enclosed in the card. Too much?

Too much.

Dany Heatley Speedwagon:

Urinating in your own shower. Acceptable? Yes/No?

I thought it was mandatory. Ever get a good yellow? I mean, it's alarming to know you're dehydrated, but nothing beats spraying neon yellow all over the shower floor. Cures Athlete's Foot, I think (NOTE: May actually cause Athlete's Foot).

Will:

At what age (or body mass) does trying to jump to touch low ceilings or overhangs stop being fun? It's one of those things I assumed people grew out of as they became adults, but I've been wrong before in assuming that people outgrew talking about shit, so I might be wrong on this too. So I ask you: when does it stop being the coolest thing in the world to be able to jump and touch the ceiling?

Never. It never gets old. We have low ceilings in the house, and I reach up and touch them all the time for no reason. I'm the only person in the house who can, so it's my subtle way of letting everyone know I'm crazy tall. Nor does it get old to jump and try and touch rim and fail.

Phony Gwynn:

Am I the only one who thinks washcloths are totally worthless? When somebody puts out a washcloth, what they're really saying is "Here, wet this piece of fabric that has been up someone's ass, rub that bar of soap on it, then put it on our face, your balls, and up your own ass. Then I'll wash it."

Anyone else ever wet a washcloth, slap in on their crotch so it sticks, and then pretend to be Tarzan for a few seconds until the cloth falls off? No? I do.

Jeff:

What constitutes a piss shake?

My post-evacuation routine consists of pulling to try and get the remnants to the end of the barrel. Then, I go with a little waggle, one more pull for posterity, and finally a few violent slings. My main goal is to make sure I avoid the leakage that gets on my freakin' boxers (which can seep onto the pants). But I don't want to be considered a perv at the urinal, trying to tug one out at the community trough. So, are my pulls part of my shake count?

I pull too! I pull it like it's fucking taffy. I also try working out the last of the piss like its toothpaste stuck in there. I think any defense to overhandling yourself in a public urinal can be countered with HEY WHY ARE YOU STARING AT MY JUNK WHAT ARE YOU GAY?!!!

Roman:

One of the salesmen where I work drives a Pontiac "Vibe" and told me he was going to get a personalized plate that read "Rator". I laughed. Lo and behold...he did. I'm not sure whether this is hilarious or retarded.

It's the former.

Mike:

You talk about stealing your kids food? I'm 24 and when I eat dinner with my parents my dad STILL tries to take the food off my plate. When I was younger, my mom would yell at him for not waiting until I was done. His excuse was "If I wait until he's done it'll get cold".

God, slow eaters are the fucking worst. Every family has at least one of them. They need a shot clock for people like this.

Anon:

What are your thoughts on the distance a fart's odor can travel? I share an office with a coworker who sits approximately six feet in front of me. I never hesitate to squeeze out silent farts, but I wait until the rankness subsides before I stand up and risk cropdusting the room, if you will. I wonder if she can smell these. For reference, she faces away from me and frequently has a small space heater blowing west to east. I face south. She has yet to say anything in the year we've shared said office.

Oh, she smells your foul shit. I've done the courtesy thing, where I stand outside the room to fart and try and clear out the gas before entering. I'll even try pulling down my pants and do the fart wave. But that shit sticks to you like an animal musk.

Fart are gaseous, and gas is made to disperse into any open space. They have good reach, and they travel well, like Nebraska fans.

Ward:

I was with my friends the other day and I had to pick a huge booger. However, I was too scared to do so because of public ridicule by my friends. This royally pisses me off. Everyone picks their nose but no one admits it publicly. Everyone does it! I bet if you looked under the desk in the Oval Office you would find some old Obama boogers. Can't we all admit we do it so when we have to it isn't a big deal?

I pick my nose all the time, and usually I'm halfway up my nose before I realize I'm doing it in public. But sometimes, you have no other choice. Ever have one of those really hard boogers that just sits in there, daring you to pick it? It's impossible to resist. Then you jam your figner up there, only now you've pushed it back, so now you have to go digging further, and you know everyone can see, but you don't give a shit because now it's like stalking prey. YOU MUST HAVE THAT BOOGER. It's just one of those things, picking your nose. Everyone does it, but everyone else's boogers are horrifying, and that's just the way it is.

Slower than Yadi:

Sir, my first colonoscopy revealed I have a redundant colon to the tune of an extra foot.

Five dollar foot long!

I regularly have, what others might construe as, massive dumps. My toilet is an older model, not of the one point something gallon per flush model, yet I regularly pile it up way out of the water. Yes, I eat a lot. Yes, I'm fat. But think about this, you have no idea how amazing dropping nearly twenty pounds of poop in a couple of minutes feels.

NOW ICE IT DOWN, SMITTY!

Paul:

The eating while shitting thing in the last mailbag. My friends and I like to call that "the meat grinder." That is all.

Got it.

Mark:

I lived overseas for two years (1997-1999) of my childhood. Even in Singapore, we played Smear the Queer. IT HAS EXTENDED BEYOND U.S. BORDERS!

In fact, in Singapore, you play it with armed police as punishment for littering.

Connor:

Have you ever used Canadian toilet paper? I have no idea where it comes from, but I was in the Yukon a few years back and that stuff was the tits. Even at rest stops. You stop at a rest stop in the US and you get some sort of paper-like product that would make newspaper feel like fine velvet. In the Yukon though, even the rest stops had TP better than anything I've ever felt in the US. This wasn't just one place either; rest stops, grocery stores, restaurants...every public restroom I used left me feeling like I wiped my ass with a baby kitten.

The secret is 100% bearskin.

Shit, now I want Canadian toilet paper. My old grovery store in New York used to have Canadian boxes of cereal for reasons I cannot fathom (other than that all New York grocery stores are mob-run and get their sundries by robbing Canadian trucks). So I've had French Canadian Honey Nut Cheerios, but no Canadian Cottonelle.

John:

Is there anything better than getting ripped at the airport?

Getting LAID at the airport. Imagine meeting a woman in the Admiral's Club, then
sneaking off together to the private showers some of those fancy airline clubs have. That would be cool. I have a whole 80-minute movie in my head right now.

Chris:

What about brushing your teeth while pooping? Seems like an efficient thing to do, especially before work in the morning when in a rush. I assumed everyone did this, so when my fiance told me it was disgusting I just dismissed her comments and went back to the toilet to poop and brush my teeth.

Where else would you brush your teeth? She's nuts. You're not rinsing the brush in the fucking pot.

Evan:

Am I the only man who enjoys the scent of his own scrotum? While working at the computer (alone at my place), I often find myself with one hand down my pants, a pinch of sack between my thumb and index finger. I then invariably raise said hand to my nose in order to take a satisfying whiff of the scrotal pheromones that have left their trace on my digits. And half the time this whole process catches me completely by surprise, as if my unconscious self were compelling me to smell my own balls.

No, that's standard operating procedure. As I've said before, my fromunda smells like oatmeal cookies. It's quite lovely. And I too totally do it unconsciously. I'm just sitting then, then all of a sudden HEY OATMEAL COOKIES! Oh hey, that's my finger. How'd I do that? I surprise even me.

Ryan:

Is it safe to say that anyone on the East Coast without EZ-Pass is officially mentally handicapped?

Yes. Even now that they fuck you here in MD with that $1.50 monthly fee, I'd never get rid of it. And I only use it a handful of times a year. No matter. I'd rather smell Evan's nuts than live without EZ Pass.

Duck:

I'm currently looking into buying a brand new car seat for my 2nd child that'll be arriving in February. And is it just me, or do these things look fuckin amazingly comfortable. Seriously, I look back at my 18 month-old's car seat and pine about being a baby.

We have one of those Britax things, which cost a jillion dollars and look like a goddamn throne. These kiddie seats have everything: cup holders, arm rests, zebra upholstery. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here in a regular seat like an ASSHOLE. It's bullshit.

Stephen:

Are you familiar with Fresh Direct? Permit me to explain how FUCKING AWESOME Fresh Direct is.

No need. I'm well aware of the benefits of Fresh Direct. It's a delight if you have it available to you.

It makes me think back to the days when I lived in New york right when they had Kozmo.com and Urban Fetch. Like Fresh Driect, both services would deliver booze to your door. But Urban Fetch and Kozmo also delivered PORN. Right to you. (This was well before the advent of Redtube and the like). Then they went out of business, and I'm not sure mankind will ever again reach that peak of convenience when it comes to the delivery of tangible objects.

Ricky:

A friend from college moved here from China when he was 9. He still mostly dreams in Chinese. We know because we asked him after realizing that he doesn't always remember English when he wakes up. A few times, we would wake his ass up and try to tell him something and he would just stare at us with this look of absolute confusion.

"Wang, get the fuck up. Your test starts in 20 minutes!"

Nothing but an empty Chinese stare for minutes at a time. Finally he would admit that he didn't know what we were saying at first cause he was still thinking in Chinese. We always sort of feared he would wake up, freak out because he didn't understand English and forgot where he was and totally go crazy Jet Li on us or something. But that's because we're dirty racists.

Indeed we are. And a fine way to end this mailbag. See you in two weeks.